


don't get cut on my edges

by itslightningbugs



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Banter, F/M, Fate & Destiny, Fuck Buddies to Lovers, Killmate AU, Smut, background coworkers AU, because that's what fuck buddies do, mama cooper was a liar, physically speaking it's the opposite of a slow burn, reverse soulmate au, they fuck, will add tags as the story goes, yeah that's a thing now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-26 00:15:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20380486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itslightningbugs/pseuds/itslightningbugs
Summary: One touch.All it takes is one touch for Betty Cooper to find out that Jughead Jones is the man she's destined to kill.And so, by causal connection, the man whose fate is to kill her.From then on, her options are quite limited.(nb 1: falling in love with her killmate definitely isn't considered as an option.)(nb 2: fate is completely fucked up.)





	don't get cut on my edges

**Author's Note:**

> Heyaaa
> 
> I’m gonna skip the part when I tell you how many months it took me to finish this one, how many times I’ve rewritten the whole thing and how many breakdowns I’ve had throughout the whole process. (4, 7, 1728).
> 
> Seriously.
> 
> Writing in general is hard. If you write, you know. But (at the risk of sounding like a broken record) writing in a language that isn’t yours is a FUCKING LONG and stressful process. You want to tell something, you know how you want to tell it, but… where are the words? It’s frustrating. And exhausting. Bruh. 
> 
> I almost gave up, I admit, but I did it. And even though it’s not as good as I’d like it to be… I’m proud, because I did it. Yup.
> 
> Now the thing is, when I started to write for this wonderful fandom, I promised myself not to do multi chapters. Mostly because I was afraid of the time it would take me to write a long story in English, and how big the wait would be between updates. In my French fandom I used to write the whole story before starting to publish it, so I could make a proper update schedule, but… I didn’t want to wait until 2025 to post this chapter. So there we are.
> 
> Let me tell you - it wasn’t supposed to go that far. Nah nah. Back in May, I started to write a basic coworkers AU. It was supposed to be a one shot, but at some point, facing my inability to keep things short, I decided to split it in three parts. All good so far. But then, THEN, in June, I stumbled across a prompt on Tumblr. THE prompt. And it hasn’t left me alone since. In the space of three days I had an entire story built up in my head and I HAD to write it down. So I took my dear coworkers AU, I kept the basis, I added new stuff, and the wild ride began.
> 
> The Bughead Reverse Soulmate AU aka Killmate AU aka what the fuck am I doing right now.
> 
> I’m not gonna talk any longer and leave you to chapter 1, which is more of a big introduction with lots of context (I suck at writing context btw) and hints about the soulmate/killmate universe. Featuring fuck buddies, Kevin Keller and Betty’s diary.
> 
> This is such a big mess and I’m still kinda insecure about my English but I hope some of y’all will enjoy it!

_He says 'ooh, baby girl_

_Don't get cut on my edges_

_I'm the king of everything_

_You know my tongue is a weapon'_

  * Halsey - Young God

________________________

_One more dose._

_Go on. _

_Roll your head back. Pull on his hair, harder. Act like you’re in control. Relish that so-called power coursing through your veins, as though you don’t know by now that power is no more than an illusion, a mirage, a fucking decoy. Act like you’re smarter, wiser, act like he’s not devouring fragments of your brain along with that throbbing traitor between your legs. Take, take, burn. Faster, till all that’s left is ash and fallen dust. Close your eyes, and act like he’s not the reason why your heart’s going to get smashed like a jigsaw puzzle. The end is near. Breathe. Breathe and count the stars behind your lashes as they crash down one by one, let go, and say his name like it’s alright. Louder._

_One more dose._

_The end is near._

…

The clock strikes one am. Lunchbreak is over.

There is one thing Betty Cooper noticed and internalized right away when she started working as a writer for _Cherry On Top _– sure, her job precisely consists in writing articles about what to eat or where to eat or how to eat; sure, every human being currently having an office on her floor has, at some point, developed a keen interest for food; but no, lunchbreak isn’t some sort of a sacred ritual during which each is expected to drool over the other’s meal or come up everyday with a brand new recipe, eager to impress.

She never had any intention of turning her lunchbreak into something _impressive _whatsoever. Nothing more than taking care of the basic necessity of life that’s to eat, whether with her coworkers in the common room or, if she’s doesn’t feel like chatting, alone in her office. Nothing more than taking a break from work at noon, and be back at it at one. One hour. Which should be more than enough time to eat a tuna sandwich.

Still, the clock in her office strikes one and, once again, Betty Cooper is running late.

She just needs a few more minutes to digest, it’s fine – everybody knows that you can’t concentrate and work effectively during digestion. Betty can’t, leastwise. Just a few more minutes and she’ll be ready to get up, smooth out her black dress, unlock the office’s door leading to the main corridor and reopen the blinds. Blinds that are still meticulously closed so that no one can see the nonchalance with which she’s currently plopped on her desk chair, nowhere near ready to type something on her keyboard.

It’s not like she’s going to have her knuckles rapped for an extra twenty or so minutes of break, since out of the enormous number of five people working with her on _COT_’s floor, there’s approximatively zero that’s going to go and check if she’s being punctual. Veronica couldn’t care less about what she’s doing given that she’s currently at the far end of the country; Kevin is undoubtedly late himself, probably still swiping right on Tinder while finishing his coffee; Cheryl must still be in the washroom checking that her bright red lipstick hasn’t smudged; and there’s a huge probability that Reggie is texting Veronica instead of editing the upcoming articles like he’s supposed to do. And Jughead—

Well, Jughead Jones sure as hell won’t be the one to give her a telling off when he’s standing right in front of her, in her very own office, being the living reason _why _she’s late, being the snack she can’t seem to digest in time even though it’s been _three months_, she should known by now, she should know that she’s always biting a little more than she can chew, she should know that lunchbreak also includes the moment when he’s borrowing her hydro-alcoholic gel to wash his _awfully _talented hands, then he has to put his weird beanie back at the top of his head and maybe she should unlock the door now that they’re done and—

Anyways.

It’s ten past one when Betty leans down on her desk chair to put her panties back where they belong.

(Under her dress.)

As she straightens up, it’s no surprise that she’s met with Jughead’s teasing expression – the one easily recognizable by the small crinkles at the corners of his eyes and that boyish smirk he seems to wear only when it comes to annoy her. “I mean it, Cooper,” he speaks while taking a lazy step toward her desk, “if you don’t turn the volume down a little bit, we’re definitely gonna get caught.”

An eye roll, that’s all Betty offers him in response. “I wasn’t that loud,” she counters, still, as she tightens her ponytail with a quick tug on it. 

“Trust me babe, you were,” Jughead assures her, pride barely hidden in his tone.

She glares at him. “I wasn’t. And don’t _babe _me.”

“As you want, _honey_. But you were. Actually I’m pretty convinced one could hear you all the way to Ocean Drive.”

Sighing heavily, Betty stretches out her legs, trying as best as possible to wash away the numbness that seems to be the inevitable consequence of her actions lately. She has no one to blame but herself, that said. She could blame Jughead – he has definitely something to do with _this _– but she won’t. “You know what? Go fuck yourself.”

“I would, though I admit I prefer when you’re doing it.”

_Of course_. Of course he was going to say that. Of course the smartass he thinks he is always wants to have the last word, and Betty is too lazy to banter back to infinity. Too tired. Too spent. Without even looking at him, she can tell that Jughead’s smug smile has grown wider, because that’s what happens every time he gets a reaction out of her. The usual routine.

(How, in the first place, did spreading her legs for her coworker during lunchbreak become part of her daily routine?

She’s dying to know.)

Betty gives her head an annoyed shake and watches as Jughead grabs a water bottle from her messy desk, takes a long sip then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. She’s staring. She _knows _that she’s staring, and she’s very aware that if she doesn’t stop staring before he catches her in the act, he’s going to think that she’s doing it on purpose – staring at _him_.

(She’d stare at anything else, really, if only she could get rid of these constant _thoughts _assaulting her mind over and over again every time she’s around him.)

She doesn’t have to worry about it for too long, though, because Jughead’s attention seems already focused on something else.

“Don’t want to imply that what we’re doing isn’t perfectly acceptable from an ethical perspective,” he prompts, then pauses to clear his throat. “But aren’t you wondering what our boss would think knowing that this is the reason why you don’t seem to work on your article?”

A sigh escapes from Betty’s lips. She could feign ignorance and pretend that she doesn’t know what he’s talking about, except she does. She perfectly does. She follows his gaze – not without a bit of reluctance – which has landed on her MacBook. On the plain, blank Word document left open on it, to be exact.

The day she took off for Los Angeles in order to represent _Cherry On Top _during some event aimed at growing start-ups, their boss – the one and only Veronica Lodge – has given her as an assignment to write an article about bad eating habits, to be finalized and published online before Christmas break. Free choice for the direction, seven days, nothing complicated so far, totally doable.

Yet there she is, facing her blatant lack of inspiration. Two days in, five days left, and, well, Betty admits that she would probably be more efficient if she wasn’t spending her time bolstering up her very own bad eating habit well known as Forsythe Pendleton Jones the third.

The morning report speaks for itself – a couple of orgasms and an empty page.

“I’m working on it,” she counters in a vain attempt to ease her conscience. She can see Jughead mouth _sure_, and it makes her want to smack his face against the nearest wall. She’s working on this article, technically, even though it’s true that she’s letting her mind wander a bit too far these past few days. Weeks. Months. Nevermind.

(She has a valid reason to do so, in her defense.)

“And please,” Betty adds in a long sigh, crossing her legs at the ankles, “would you stop thinking you’re the reason for everything?”

Taking off his beanie so he can run a hand through his dark locks, Jughead walks up to her until she’s forced to tilt her chin up to look at him. The man is tall, and the fact that she’s currently in a sitting position doesn’t help, she feels tiny. “Didn’t say it was me. Just that it would be kind of sad for you to get your ass fired because you’re putting all that energy in our _encounters _instead of your writing.”

Betty scoffs. She may feel tiny, but her mouth isn’t. “That would be _tragic_, even. Can’t imagine how much you’d miss my pretty ass.”

“Sure thing.” Jughead smirks and leans over, his hands finding support on either side of the chair she’s sitting on. Blue eyes lock into her green and he inches closer, his breath tickling her face as he whispers, “I would miss you.”

Staying perfectly still, Betty cocks an eyebrow at him. Trying to read between the lines has become second nature for her, therefore she can’t help but wonder if there’s a deeper meaning in what Jughead just said, something beyond their well established push and pull dynamic, something she should notice – _would he? Would he miss me for real? _

He’s searching for something in her gaze, she can tell. A sign. A hint. A reaction. Perhaps he’s waiting for her to admit that she would miss him too. But they’re not like that, they don’t _know _each other like that. They don’t know each other at all, in fact, putting aside their seemingly shared hunger driving them both to extend their lunchbreaks. They would miss each other’s body, at a pinch, but it’s stupid to think they would miss more. And if that’s what he thinks, then she has to knock him down from that cloud.

(And shake herself out of her own thoughts – two birds, one stone.)

Betty doesn’t think twice. She matches Jughead’s self-assured look, and with all the dexterity and precision she can muster, she points her kitten heel to his foot then stomps on it. _Back off_. The reaction isn’t slow in coming – he backs off immediately, indeed, and Betty can’t hold back a snort when she sees him wince in pain as if she just kicked him in the balls.

“By the way, Smughead Jones, may I remind you that our boss is my best friend, so _you_are most likely to get fired for crawling in my office to satisfy those fantasies of yours?”

(They’re both safe, really. If anything, Veronica would be thrilled to know that she’s getting laid.

For some reason, she doesn’t seem to know yet.

All the better.)

“I don’t recall you complaining,” Jughead points out flatly while bending down to rub his foot through his shoe, probably checking if it’s still there after Betty’s gentle gesture. _This one, always so dramatic._

“No shit,” Betty mutters. “I’m not complaining, though I should let you know that I’m getting tired of faking my orgasms.”

Jughead’s eyebrows shoot up at the confession. Obviously he’s aware that she isn’t serious in the slightest, that she doesn’t _fake_anything in that area (leastwise she hopes that he’s aware), but just for the sheer pleasure of seeing that dumbfounded look on his infuriatingly good-looking face, she would do that again. Pretend that _he’s not that good_.

(He is, objectively.)

She hit a nerve, though. She can tell, because as soon as his foot appears to be functional, he starts hovering around her like a bloody vulture around a soon-to-be corpse and it’s safe to assume that she’s about to pay for her sassy attitude. Push and pull, nothing new.

“I see,” Jughead nods as he walks past her, waking all her senses up again with his closeness only. He disappears from her peripheral vision only to startle her from behind, his hands finding their attach point again on the chair’s arms, surrounding her, encapsulating her. _Close_. Betty bites her lip in anticipation as he leans down, his words tumbling in a deep whisper right next to her ear. “What you’re saying is that you squirming and moaning _I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming _under my tongue a few minutes ago was _fake_.”

Betty is nothing if not perfectly used to his dirty talk. She’s used to _them_. She’s used to their never ending banter and their weird physical proximity and all these twisted sensations swarming over her body when it comes to him, she shouldn’t be that easy. She should be able to resist. Yet just as always, when he’s around, her body turns into an independent entity with little to no self control – so there she is, clenching her thighs.

_Here we go…_

He notices. Even though she can’t see his face right now, she can perfectly picture his signature smirk as he nuzzles her ear then places a featherlike kiss on the sensitive spot just below. “And here I thought you were such a good girl for me.”

_…again._

Blame it on the kiss, blame it on his words, Betty moans. It’s quick, barely audible, but Jughead can hear it and that fact only signs her defeat. Because that’s what it is: a defeat. Another proof that she’s too weak. And she knows, she knows deep down that she can’t afford the luxury of being weak, not now, not with him. She needs to hold onto the vaguest feeling of control, because control is power and power is safety.

Safety is the key.

But she’s weak. She’s weak, and he’s _everywhere_.

He’s now trailing kisses along her jawline, from her ear down to her chin, his hot breath eliciting goosebumps all over her skin. Betty allows herself to close her eyes, because she’s late anyways, and screwed, and weak, and there’s no point in denying that he’s mastered the art of shutting her brain off from the very beginning.

They should stop. He should go back to his own office, she should start to work on her article for real, and they should be doing normal coworkers things (because Betty likes to pretend that’s all they are). But Jughead keeps going, keeps toying with her weaknesses, and all Betty does is tilt her head back studiously to give him better access on her neck, expecting him to move down there.

Except that Jughead’s lips move up.

They move up, grazing the corner of her mouth, and it’s all it takes for Betty to snap out of her fleeting moment of distraction. Her eyes fly open, and when she realizes that he won’t stop doing whatever he’s doing, she clears her throat and starts wiggling in her chair. “Huh—what is that, Jones?” She warns, turning her head to the opposite side so she’s out of his reach. “You forgot the rules already?”

_Rules. Control. _

Her words apparently more effective than any repellent, Jughead moves back with a groan – dare she say in frustration? It doesn’t really matter, what’s important is that she’s in control. She can resist.

“Your rules are dumb as fuck,” Jughead scoffs as he walks away from her and starts pacing across the office, hands buried in the pockets of his pants. “Care to explain again how I get to kiss every goddamn part of your body but not your mouth?”

Betty scowls and sinks further down her chair, not really wanting to broach this particular subject. “Because I decided so.”

“You’re dumb.”

“Yet you’re still coming back for more.”

There’s an almost deafening silence following her remark, and as Jughead spins around to face her, Betty can easily guess what he’s about to say: _I’m not the only one who’s still coming back for more_.

She’s aware.

She’s aware, and the knot forming in her stomach serves as a reminder that at some point she’s going to have to talk to him about that, about them, about what they’re doing together, and above all about some things she knows that he seems to ignore. Or maybe he knows, too. She can’t tell. Anyways – they should talk.

(Not today, though.)

When Jughead’s mouth opens, Betty pretends she didn’t say anything and hurries to get back to the subject matter: the _no kissing rule_. “That’s pure logic,” she says, averting her gaze from him. “It’s too intimate.”

Jughead snorts. “Too intimate, she said.”

“Yes. Now don’t be greedy and leave,” she demands, glancing exaggeratedly to the door.

He doesn’t move an inch. “More intimate than you riding my tongue?”

“Shut up and _leave_,” Betty grumbles, feeling her cheeks turn crimson by the second in spite of herself. He’s insufferable – in more ways than one, but especially because of his infuriating ability to make her look like a ripe tomato every time he mentions something involving his tongue. He has to leave _now, _if only she wants to have a hope of getting back to work before dusk.

“You’re telling me that me fucking your mouth is less _intimate _than kissing it?”

_Breathe in, breathe out. _“Get out of my office, Forsythe.”

Out of a childish impulse, Betty throws a pen at Jughead’s face. Of course he catches it – _of course _– before raising both his hands in fake surrender. “Okay, easy with the big names. I’m still trying to figure out what’s going on inside that fascinating head of yours.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes at her. “Scared to fall in love, Elizabeth?”

_Don’t. Kill. Him. Already._

Betty grits her teeth. “Get. Out. Before I kick you in the balls for real this time.”

Finally, _finally_, Jughead makes his way to the door. He’s certainly taking his time to do so, but at least he seems to be done teasing her, therefore she can relax a little (she wouldn’t admit it, but she’s always kind of _tensed _when she’s trying to win an argument against him).

“Fine, you grumpy cat.” As part of their routine, Jughead reopens the blinds, unlocks the door, checks that the coast is clear and flashes her one last grin before opening it. “Go back to work then. See you next time you need me.”

The door snaps close.

Only then, the air surrounding her starts to feel more breathable.

There’s something sick about this, and it only feels healthy when he’s gone.

He’s gone, but his words are still looping in her head. _Next time. __You need me._

“I don’t need you,” Betty mutters to herself, cracking her knuckles then bringing her chair closer to the desk so she can reach her laptop and _work_. “And it was the last time.”

(Except she does.

And it wasn’t.)

…

On a scale of one to the heat of a thousand fires, the temperature in Betty’s office is perilously close to the temperature of the sun.

She hasn’t excepted Miami to be the same as Riverdale, that goes without saying, she knew from the start that it was going to be bigger, brighter, and _hotter_. Sure, sun is great. Sure, being able to put on summer clothes basically every day of the year is thoroughly enjoyable. But it’s fucking _December, _Christmas is just around the corner, and Betty did not sign up to sweat and suffocate to the point of being forced to go outside because if she stays a second longer in this building, she’ll probably end up more roasted than a chicken fresh out of the oven.

_We’re going to fix the air conditioning_, they said.

Back in Riverdale High, a couple of months before graduating, when Veronica told her that she was thinking about moving to Florida in order to build her own start-up, Betty has been conflicted. Proud, first and foremost, but conflicted.

There’s something to be proud of, watching your best friend start her own business at only eighteen. Not everyone has the nerve to take such a huge step forward (and not everyone has a family as wealthy as Veronica Lodge does, including a father who owns one of the biggest companies in the country, okay), but Betty never had a doubt in her mind that Veronica was going to do better than great. She always had a strong leader soul, and if there’s one thing that fits her completely, it is to _lead_.

However, one question instantly popped up in Betty’s head – _why Florida? _Not that there was something inherently _wrong _with the state in particular (she would’ve asked the same for California or Illinois or Texas – except that Veronica would’ve never, _never _implanted her headquarters in Texas), but at the time, Betty was just hoping her best friend would willingly choose to come with her to New York – where she’d been accepted into the program she’d applied to only a couple of days before – so they wouldn’t be apart. Moreover, New York didn’t seem like the worst of choice to make a fresh start career wise.

But Veronica chose Florida.

_The palm trees, Betty! _ _The night life! The beach! The weather!_

All good, all good. If we put aside that in Betty’s reality, night life comes down to sleep, and Miami Beach is the place where you can be sunburned _and _hit by a volleyball all in the space of five minutes. The weather? Would be totally fine if winter was actually winter, with gloves and scarfs and snow and hot chocolate, and if only the air conditioning was working on _COT_’s floor.

(Palm trees are good, though.)

But Betty won’t complain. At least not aloud.

Moving here is what saved her, to some extent. With hindsight and after all she’s been through, she would almost say it was _fate_.

(For better and for worse.)

She’s been reluctant, at first, when Veronica offered her to work for _Cherry On Top. _Not because she had a thing against Miami (she didn’t know, back then, that the city was _so hot_) or because she didn’t like the job in itself – this was pretty much a dream opportunity. Give a girl who just turned twenty a job combining her passion for writing and her passion for food and baking, tell her she’ll be paid to do food tips, recipes and restaurants reviews from time to time, and that girl has, seemingly, no reason to turn down such a nice offer.

Betty did have a reason – she couldn’t bear being a charity award. This was closely linked to her situation back then and the fact that she had reached the point where she needed to be _saved _– the two years she spent in New York right after high school graduation has been a tough thing to deal with, to say the least, and she didn’t want Veronica to offer her the job out of pity. She knew deep down that it wasn’t the case, that it was nothing else than her best friend doing her very best to get her out of the hole she was burying herself in at the moment, but the thought has been hard to shake.

Time were rough, and so Betty was with herself. She needed the job, but she wanted to earn it. She needed the opportunity to start over, but she wanted to do it without any help. She needed to be saved, but she wanted to save herself.

When she played the _having my best friend as a boss don’t seem very conventional _card to justify why she shouldn’t take the job, Veronica waved her off and told her that the issue was non-existent given that every people working for her was considered her friend. Fair enough. When she assured her that she was going to be useless because _COT _already had a writer in its ranks, the brunette insisted that they could totally use a second one. And so on – each of Betty’s excuses ended up wrinkled at the bottom of Veronica’s trash can.

Eventually, she took the job.

A few months later, she can say that she’s grateful. For having a stubborn, loving friend like Veronica, for this new beginning, and for the lesson she’s learned from this – when people reach out a hand, you don’t bite it. The only thing it gets you is that they stop reaching out. No matter how strong you pretend to be, no matter what you want to prove to yourself, you can’t do everything alone. Everybody hurts, everybody struggles, everybody needs helps.

Betty needed help.

(She still does, somehow, but at least now she has something to do with her days.)

Although it definitely wasn’t in her initial plans to find herself daydreaming in front of a shared building somewhere in the middle of Brickell Avenue on a December afternoon, taking breaks out of the blue in order to get some fresh air because there’s so much she can take before melting like a goddamn candle, Betty is far from regretting the choice she eventually made to leave New York for Miami. She couldn’t have stayed out there any longer, in any case.

From time to time, she wonders what would’ve happened if she had chosen to stay. If she hadn’t found the strength to fight. What would her life be like today if everything hadn’t gone down in the first place?

One thing’s for sure, she wouldn’t have met her new coworkers.

Kevin, for example. She would’ve never met Kevin Keller, who’s currently busy flipping through a magazine, leaned against the wall of the building she’s facing. Proof that she’s not the only one in need of an impromptu break. Betty enjoys Kevin’s company, mostly because aside from Veronica, he’s been the first to make her feel welcomed in her new work environment, and even though she tends not to be a _people person _lately, it’s always comforting to be surrounded by some good ones.

There’s only a few other people working for _COT _– Veronica herself, manager and editor in chief; Reggie, the co-editor (Betty thinks he’s got it bad for Veronica, but aside from that, she doesn’t know much about him); Cheryl, who’s doing all the design and photography stuff (makes sense – Cheryl doing the design for _Cherry On Top_); and Kevin, being as extra sociable as he is, who’s animating social networks and researching partnerships all over the food world.

Then there’s Jughead, the other writer. The original one. Before Betty came around, he had his hands on everything – recipes, tips, restaurant reviews, and when she started to work, she quickly realized why Veronica had told her that they could use a second writer: that’s a lot of work for just one person. 

As a result, tasks were split between the two of them. Now Jughead is mostly doing all the recipes (creative recipes, with storytelling and everything, this is _writing_), while Betty is more on the tips (read: giving advices she often doesn’t take herself). They basically never work on the same article, aside from reviewing a restaurant they both tested to get different views on it, as a consequence they don’t _have _to interact that much.

(They do, nevertheless.

Especially since Jughead has _regularly _his hands on Betty.

But that’s a story for another day.)

Because it has become a habit at some point, Betty doesn’t miss the exact moment her thoughts become a little too Jughead centric, and that’s when she knows it’s time to put an end to her little break and walk back into the oven that is her work place. She didn’t wait for her body to cool down only to let her brain overheat instead. Because that’s what happens when she allows herself to think about Jughead Jones for too long – her brain overheats. Or sometimes it’s her body. Or both.

As she starts heading to the front door, she catches a glimpse of Kevin from the corner of her eye, noticing that he isn’t reading his magazine anymore. He’s watching _her_, with quite the insistent look on his face, so insistent that she stops herself in her tracks and turns to him.

“What?” Betty inquires, frowning a little. “What’s wrong, Kev?”

He scans her from head to toes, silent for a while. She’s about to reiterate her question when a knowing smirk spreads over his lips, his eyes eventually narrowing on something visibly captivating. “Nothing wrong,” Kevin shrugs under her skeptic gaze, then points two fingers at the base of his neck, tapping lightly on the skin. “But if I may say so, I suggest you hide that cute little hickey you’ve got here.”

At that exact moment, Betty is thankful for not drinking coffee because she would’ve probably spit it all out right now and then. That would’ve been even more embarrassing. As a reflex, she quickly brings her own fingers up to the spot where she _knows _there’s a mark, and tries her best no to blush red at the implication of it. _Great, just great_.

_Now that would make a solid murder motive._

She doesn’t even bother undoing her ponytail in order to cover the damage a minimum – firstly she’s too hot to let her hair down, secondly that won’t change the fatal outcome: she’s a goddamn embarrassment, and Jughead Jones is an irredeemable little shit. Betty is willing to bet that he saw that bloody mark he left on her, he perfectly saw it and he deliberately chose not to tell her. He must be so proud of himself.

Kevin is laughing, and Betty wants to merge with the floor.

“So you’re still doing this,” her coworker all but states as she starts to focus on a very interesting point on the ground. “Am I right?”

“No,” she mumbles, knowing damn well what he’s referring to.

“We didn’t see you during lunchbreak.”

“Yes, well, I ate in my office.”

“We didn’t see Jones either,” Kevin adds almost casually, almost like he isn’t implying _anything _by that. But Betty is now well acquainted with him and his soft spot for gossips, and although it can be fun and refreshing sometimes, it can also be a _bit _intrusive. Just a bit. “Did he eat in your office too?”

Betty remains silent.

“There’s six of us on _COT_’s floor, Betty. _Six. _Did you really think nobody would notice the two of you missing at the same time?”

_Point taken_, she concedes.

Given the option, she’d never talk about what’s happening between her and Jughead. Because it’s private stuff, naturally, and she has the right to share or not the how and the why she’s walking around with fresh hickeys on her skin, but also and above all because there are details she _has _to keep to herself, at least until she figures some things out.

She has her reasons.

But Kevin’s right, it was bold of her to assume she’d just get away with it. Walls have ears, after all, and she’s the one who deliberately chose to keep doing that kind of stuff at work of all places, she doesn’t get to complain when people ask questions.

It wouldn’t be the end of the world if more people were to know that they’re…_seeing _each other. It wouldn’t compromise her job, that’s for sure (really, nobody cares), and she’s not ashamed of what they’re doing together. It’s not something she’s very _proud of _either, but still. She’s a grown ass woman very much able to own up her actions.

“Kev?” Betty asks, her curiosity peeking in spite of herself. “How did you find out that Jughead and I… how did you know in the first place? I mean, am I—” She trails off, cringing internally before lowering her voice to ask, “are we _loud_?”

At that, Kevin legitimately bursts out of laughing. “Betty Cooper, I love you.”

Rolling her eyes, Betty waits quietly for him to calm down and elaborate. If they’re going to talk about it, might as well do it right. Kevin clears his throat several times, his fit of giggles eventually turning into an almost _too serious _expression as he closes his magazine and looks Betty dead in the eye. “Have you seen him? Have you seen Jughead? Ever since you got here, that boy is constantly staring at you like he’s in the process of learning by heart the whole trilogy of your body parts. Eyes don’t lie. And you? Please, don’t get me started on the barely disguised _unholy _vibes emanating from you every time you’re both in the same room. I don’t need no soundtrack, Betty, I know because it’s pretty obvious that you have the hots for each other. Can’t blame you, though, Jones is _hella hot—_”

_That didn’t go as planned._

“I’m not—he’s not _hot_,” Betty interrupts quite abruptly, glancing around as though she’s afraid they’re being tapped. “He’s arrogant. And smug. And he’s always wearing that weird beanie. I know there’s no such thing as a _dress code _in here but still. That’s weird. Right? Oh, and he pours milk before the cereal—”

“—wow, what a bitch—”

“—and have you seen him eat? He’s being paid to offer healthy recipes yet he doesn’t seem able to make it through two days in a row without shoving down his throat more burgers than I’ve had in my whole—”

“—okay fine, _fine_, got it,” Kevin stops her with a gentle hand on her shoulder, seemingly amused. “So you don’t find him hot. And I’m going to pretend I believe you. Enlighten me, then. Why are you still spreading those gorgeous legs for him during lunchbreak? It’s been like… two months now? Three?”

_Three months._

_Because I can’t help it, _Betty thinks weakly_. I need this._

Her bottom lip gets trapped between her teeth and, still somehow caught up in her own rambling, she blurts out the first thing that comes to her mind. “He also happens to be very… good. Clever. Skillful… with his tongue.”

Thank heaven, because Kevin is Kevin, the sheer boldness of her statement just slides right in with the rest of the conversation. “Oh yeah? Go on girl,” he says, smirking. “Want deets. I may be interested.”

Betty stifles a small laugh, shaking her head in half amusement, half annoyance. She knows that Kevin’s joking, that this whole situation is nothing if not a big joke, yet the words are burning at the tip of her tongue. _Find another one, this one’s mine._

(Except that he’s not. _Hers_, that is.

She wouldn’t wish that on him.

She wouldn’t wish that on anyone.)

It’s easy, talking with Kevin, because he rarely takes things as seriously as she does. There would be no embarrassment nor shame if she’d choose to fill him in with her _thrilling _sex life, and she would, if only it was just about sex. But it’s not. Talking about Jughead is indirectly talking about some things Betty has no choice but to take seriously, and she’d rather do that with Jughead himself – and she _should_.

“Does everyone know, Kev? Does Veronica know too?” Betty questions after a short silence. Her curiosity seems to have a large appetite for someone who claims not wanting to talk about this.

“Nobody’s talking about you and Jones behind your back, if that’s your real question,” Kevin says simply with a shrug, reaching into the pocket of his beige pants when the telltale sound of a notification is heard.

Betty nods absentmindedly. Truthfully she doesn’t even know what her real question was, just like she doesn’t even know why she’s still standing outside chatting with Kevin about the most chaotic part of her life when she should be in her office, probably typing something about junk food because that’s actually what she’s being paid for.

She contemplates walking back into the building for good this time, so she can be spared from the rest of this conversation, but Kevin doesn’t seem to be done with the interrogation yet. He puts his phone back in his pocket and levels her gaze, frowning. “Aren’t you supposed to tell Veronica everything about your love life though, you know, like BFFs do?”

“Except there is no _love_,” Betty corrects, tone laced with an ounce of irritation. Frustration? Nevermind. She folds her arms across her chest, a somewhat metaphorical form of self-protection in anticipation of the discussion she knows will follow. Inevitably. “We’re not even friends. We don’t even like each other.”

_We can’t_, she adds silently.

“Hmm.” Kevin scratches the back of his neck as though he’s searching for the slightest bit of coherence in what she’s saying. Eventually, he lets out a long, way too dramatic sigh. “Speaking frankly, Betty, I’m disappointed. I’m more than willing to hear that you two very much enjoy your pillow fight routine, and trust me I wouldn’t deny the power of banter as effective foreplay, but that whole _I hate the guy but we happen to fuck _trope is _so _boring. You can do better, I’m sure. Like, I don’t know, what if he’s your soulmate? Now _that _would be a good plot twist.”

Betty should laugh. She doesn’t.

“I would know if he was my soulmate. He’s not.” She’s not deepening that statement. “And I don’t _hate _him.” Her voice falters a little before she shakes the weakness out of it. She has to say something, anything. “It’s just—I mean, the one and only thing him and I have in common, and thank god given that we’re working for a food magazine, is that we both love to eat.”

Kevin’s smirk grows way too enthusiastic.

“Food,” Betty clarifies with an eye roll. “We love to eat food.”

“Uh-huh.” Kevin gives her a slow, unconvinced nod, after which she’s waiting for him to add something along the lines of _I can think of other things you and Jughead have in common, _or maybe _you don’t strike me as the type to fuck without feelings_. Either way she’s already preparing a reply. She’s caught off guard, though, because in the end all Kevin adds is “Anyways, keep doing whatever makes you happy, Betty.”

_Happy._

Well. She could explain to him, simply and plainly, why this isn’t about being happy. _At all._

But happiness is a tricky concept. Betty has noticed that people often tend to mix it up with pleasure, to see both terms as synonyms, and that’s probably what Kevin does too. She disagrees. She likes to think that pleasure is all about the body, a feeling driven only by the need of a physical satisfaction, something she can easily grasp. It’s clear as daylight that she’s having her fair dose of pleasure with Jughead, and this is mainly why she’s always coming back for more. That’s just how it works – the body is permanently in search of what’s pleasurable, and once it finds and experiments what feels good, it craves a second taste. And another. Again, and again, and again.

Happiness, however, is something else. It has to work the same way, Betty admits, but the search is less evident. More perilous. And that is because it’s no longer about the body – it touches the soul.

_And boy, souls can be tricky._

_What is there to be happy about? _Betty wonders for a second. _Nothing. _

No, happiness has nothing to do with this. 

Granted they’re talking about pleasure, that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. If anything, it stands to remind Betty of something she keeps warm in the back of her mind – pleasure and pain are two sides of the same coin. They will always be, and although one could go on and on about this particular correlation and argue that it can even be turned to something beneficial in some situations, Betty do not see it that way. She can’t. She knows how pain feels like, and it’s nothing short of a fatality.

If pleasure is the reason why she hasn’t stopped seeing Jughead behind closed doors yet, pain is the reason why she _should _stop. But it’s well known, some things are easier said than done.

There is always a strange line between begging to be touched and begging to be let go – between silently hoping he’d turn her down and stop this carnage so she wouldn’t have to think about doing it herself, and wanting him to give her more and more hickeys in places only she can see them. It’s always been so blurry, that line between the push and the pull. Between the bitter and the sweet.

Between the blessing and the curse.

Between—

“Hello? Earth to Betty?”

When she hears her name called out, Betty almost jumps, knocking herself out of her thoughts. She blinks twice, realizing she’s been zoning out in front of Kevin. “I—sorry Kev, were you saying something?”

“Yeah, I was randomly wondering, did Jughead ever tell you word for word that he doesn’t like you?”

Betty stiffens. He did tell her, actually, but she doesn’t see how this is relevant right now. Anyways, once again, it’s Kevin, he’s curious, he likes asking questions, perhaps this _is _relevant for him, so be it. She’ll clean her head later. When he proceeds, she opts for a neutral expression. “Because, y’know, we’re not exactly two peas in a pod, but I’ve known him for a while now, and he’s never been the type to do things like this. _F without F_, I mean. Not that I know of.”

“_F __without __F_?”

Facing her confused look, Kevin makes a perfect _duh _face. “Fuck without feelings, Betty.”

“Oh.” _Well, maybe you just don’t know him well enough._

(It’s not like _she _knows him well enough. They don’t talk about this, and she doesn’t know shit.)

Quiet for a moment, Betty glances away long enough to take a deep breath. “It’s been three months, I would know by now,” she points out eventually, and it sounds like she’s trying more to convince herself than Kevin. “He would’ve told me if he wanted more than… this.”

(The second the words leave her mouth, she wishes she could swallow them back. The _nerve_. Acting like she’s not in the perfect position to know that – just because things are left unsaid doesn’t mean they aren’t real. Secrets exist.)

Kevin doesn’t seem convinced at all – but has he been convinced by _one _thing she’s said since the beginning of this discussion? “Whatever floats your boat,” he ends up saying, and when he glances to the building entrance and asks her if she wants to head back inside, Betty thinks this is the moment when she can finally put her brain to rest (it’s overheating up there, as predicted).

Turns out it’s not. As she pulls the front door and waits for him to walk in, she’s met with Kevin’s inquisitive stare _again_. “Seriously though, now you’re gonna have to tell me how it happened. Unbearable sexual tension? When exactly? Where?”

_This one, _Betty sighs internally, _unstoppable. _She _could_, technically, tell him how. He already knows it happened, so what’s a little bit more, right? She could tell him how without getting into the specifics. Without mentioning what she saw that day. What she felt. What that meant. She could keep it light and simple. Casual conversation. She could also be exasperated and tell him to shove it because it’s too much and she’s just _tired_, but really, she just wants this conversation to end. “I’m not going to tell you that, Kev.”

“Oh, so you’re fine with telling me about Jughead’s so-called tongue skills but you don’t want me to know how you ended up in each other’s pants? At least tell me where. Please?”

Betty pauses for a second, thinking, trying to tamp down the gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach caused by the memory Kevin just brought back. “Okay. Wanna know where? Fine. It started out in the printer room.”

That was to be expected – mouth agape and both eyebrows raised, Kevin looks genuinely shocked. She was, too, that day. She doesn’t let him the time to say anything else, though, motioning for him to follow her as she heads to the staircase leading to their offices. “Now come on, let’s go back to work.”

…

_December 16th, 2019_

_Dear Diary, _

_It’s been three months since I found out that Jughead Jones is the man I am destined to kill, and so, by causal connection, the man whose fate is to kill me._

_It’s been three months and I’m tired. I’m tired of pretending, tired of overthinking, tired of acting strong when all that’s inside of me is fucking fear. I’m scared. I’m scared and panicked and soaked. Why does it feel like we’re both walking under the same sky but only I can feel the pouring rain? I can’t take doing this much longer – I already waited too long and I need to know. I need to know if he can feel it too. The rain. Me. This twisted destiny._

_I’ll ask him tomorrow. I’ll tell him. I have to._

_But really – fate is so fucked up. If I had to draw one neat conclusion from the past three months, that would be it. And the external force that kindly took the initiative to decide that the first twenty years of my life would lead to this exact moment for the sole reason that it’s “meant to be” can cordially suck it. Sorry, language. But that’s how fate works, right? Everything that happens in one’s life only happens to serve one ultimate goal. Which would mean, in other words, that I’ve been through hell and back for a reason. That I lost mom and dad for a reason. That I lost myself for a reason. _

_So I could find him. My killmate._

_I find it kind of funny, how people tend to believe and talk more about soulmates than killmates. As though both don’t stem from the same so-called prophecy. As though fate is all about love. As though turning a blind eye to the dark side will make it disappear from the surface of the earth. Sure, if we stick to the basis, someone’s more likely to find out they have a soulmate rather than a killmate. As human beings, we’re all driven by two principal impulses – either by love or by fear, and although both feelings coexist in each of us, love is the one that’s predominating in most cases. That’s why there is, statistically, much more people conditioned to love than to kill. Yeah, because if you can’t love, then you kill. There’s no in between when it comes to fate. How convenient._

_Either way, all it takes is one touch to find out. Everyone knows that. When two mates touch each other for the first time, what they feel – it being love or fear – is what they are. Quite simple. One touch. A single contact with the person you’re paired with, and you can tell if you’re destined to love them or to kill them._

_Oh, also, killmates have matching scars. I remember having this bad nightmare involving said scars when I was twelve, that’s when I confessed to mom that I was afraid to have a killmate. She told me that I didn’t have to worry about this because she and dad were soulmates, naturally, and Polly and I were nothing if not conditioned to love and to be loved._

_That was a solid two-in-one lie. _

_But how was I supposed to know back then? I’ve been raised to be good. To please everyone, to please the mirror, to never cross the line. Sit still, look pretty. Mom and dad wanted me to be the perfect, well-behaved daughter who never makes waves and succeeds at everything she undertakes. They raised me, indeed, to love and to be loved. And I know they always did what they thought was the best for me, I would never blame them for that. _

_But I grew up scared. Maybe it’s part of the package when your life’s ruled by expectations, but the more I lived, the more I was scared. Scared to disappoint, scared of what others might say if I were to fail, scared of what the mirror would think. Maybe there was something wrong with me. I grew up sick. I grew up wary. I grew up lonely. _

_Or maybe it was just meant to be that way. Part of fate’s plan. I woke up one day suddenly craving for a change, for a feeling I knew nothing about, for someone to fill that constant void inside of me. Love. No more expectations. _

_I longed to be someone’s shot of whisky instead of being everyone’s tea. _

_As soon as I turned sixteen, I began to search for my soulmate. Read: I tried my hands at love. To fill the void. To honor fate. You know as well as I do, no need to go into details – that was such an epic fail. And it was all me, everytime, my fault, my mistakes. What can I say. I was lost. I wanted to be someone’s shot of whisky, and that’s exactly what I’ve become – an overdosed drink._

_Swallowed. Consumed. Thrown up._

_Until my heart couldn’t hold no more._

_It took me about three years of repeated and crushing defeats to finally realize that when it comes to love, the only thing people are willing to give for free is captivity. Otherwise everything comes with a price tag, and it was something I couldn’t afford. Something I could never afford. I stopped saving money, and came to terms with the fact that maybe I wasn’t conditioned to love at all. Maybe I wasn’t destined to find my soulmate, because I didn’t have one. It may be rare, but rare does not mean impossible. _

_So what, did that mean I had a killmate? Yes. Technically. No. I didn’t want to know. Who would want to have one? Who would wish that their fate was to kill someone? I stopped searching. I stopped pretending to care about fate at all._

_But you know what they all say – seeing is believing. _

_And I saw. I saw him._

_All it took was one touch. _

_I felt this. I felt him. _

_Jughead Jones._

_Three months ago, a couple of missteps in this damn printer room, one stupid decision. I don’t know what I was thinking. I let my guard down. I knew who he was, and acted like I didn’t care. Like I was smarter than this, bigger than this. I thought I was in control. I thought I could escape fate. But how could I escape something that’s inside me? Stupid._

_I promised myself that it would be a one-time thing. One dose, do not refill. Just a romp. But hey, I’m me. Everything that drowns me makes me want to fly. Everything that beats me makes me want to fight. You know the rest – I did it again. And again, and again._

_Now I can’t stop._

_I don’t love him. We never kiss, we never hold hands, we never text each other good night. No love. He thinks he’s smart and he pisses me off and most of the time I’ve got the itch to slap his smug face, but I know the feeling’s mutual. We’re good. We fight, we argue, and we fuck. Casual. We help each other out by trading orgasms and everything’s fine. It’s fine, because whatever it is that him and I have, I know that this is what I need. No strings attached, no promises, no love. Playful, fun, harmless. He somehow found a way to help me numb some pain, and in exchange I… I don’t even know what he gets from this, to be honest. Guess I’m a good lay. Maybe I’m his shot of whisky._

_Betty Cooper. The emotionally instable girl who’s banging her coworker slash killmate during lunchbreak. Mom must be spinning in her grave right now. _

_But I can’t help it. I need this. I need him._

_And see, that’s why fate is completely and thoroughly fucked up – I can’t need him. Why would I need the only person in this world I’m meant to kill? Tell me, why would I have to get rid of the only thing that makes me feel alive? Why does it have to be him?_

_Fucked up. Just because I don’t love him doesn’t mean I want to end his life. This is bullshit. I won’t do this. I won’t kill him. But if I don’t, he will. It goes both ways, whoever will have the first fire. Would he, though? I really have to talk to him. He must know. If I felt it, he must’ve felt it too, right? But why does he act like everything’s normal then? Oh right – that’s exactly what I do. Does that mean he knows? What if he knows but doesn’t want to do it either? What if he knows and is only waiting for the perfect moment to do it? To end me?_

_Nevermind. It’s not like he didn’t end me already._

_I’m tired. _

_Where do we go from this? _

_I should’ve never touched him. _

_Trust me, I wouldn’t have done it, had I known that I would find in Florida my very own Hotel California – because that’s how it goes with fate, whether or not it’s something in which you want to believe. _

_You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave. _

**Author's Note:**

> (I lost count of the times I had to repeat to myself that no, I'm not supposed to tell EVERYTHING in the first chapter, and yes, it's normal to leave things unsaid. There's just so much to say about this universe, and I guess it's okay if things are a little blurry at first.)
> 
> Soooo.
> 
> I still don't know how I managed to do it, but I did it. 
> 
> Comment, comment, leave a comment, I reallyyyy wanna hear your thoughts on this one. Means a whole fucking lot to me.
> 
> (Hotel California covered by Madilyn Bailey: my heart. It had to be my last line.)
> 
> On a personal note, life has been kind of a bitch with me lately, and I just wanted to thank again all of you who reviewed Two Pieces and/or the little thing called Freedom I posted on tumblr. Every comment, every kudo, every reblog, every like brings me so much joy, even Marie Kondo would be impressed. Seriously. This fandom always helps me get through some hard times and I’m forever grateful for this. Love love love. There's only love in here, we're all soulmates.
> 
> Feel free to message me on tumblr. <3
> 
> xx Lo


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